


all you touch and all you see

by missroserose



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Double Life, Dreams, Episode: s04e17 It's a Terrible Life, Life Choices, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:35:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26246512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missroserose/pseuds/missroserose
Summary: Sam Wesson ruminates on the life he and Dean have chosen.
Relationships: Dean Smith/Sam Wesson, Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 15
Kudos: 37





	all you touch and all you see

**Author's Note:**

> Today's "the author is working through feels in fic" themes: life choices, dreams, fate, the inherent yearning in paths not taken, and finding happiness amidst the general messed-up state of the world.
> 
> You're welcome.

_“So...why are we here?”_

_A moment of silence. Fingers tighten around a trendy reusable mug. Green eyes flick up, meet his, far more sincere than he could have imagined, even a week ago._

_“I can’t explain it. I’m just...more myself, when you’re around.”_

Sam Wesson is dreaming. Well, half-dreaming; awake enough that he can tell that he’s lying in bed on sheets with some ridiculous thread count, covers bunched around his legs, the cool constant breeze of the ceiling fan blowing over his sleep-warm chest. At the same time, he’s sitting in the passenger seat of an old muscle car, rain tapping on the roof and hissing beneath the tires. The thrum of the V8 permeates his whole body as he flips through papers, research for the next job. The automatic reverse on the tape deck clicks over, and Sam wonders how many times Dean’s played this exact Led Zeppelin album on this very deck. A hundred? A thousand?

Dean. Dean is there in both worlds, beside him. He glances over to where this Dean is squinting through the rain. Takes in his scruffy jacket and worn shirt, hair standing on end in places, the ketchup stain on his jeans from his lunchtime drive-through burger. It’s such a contrast to the Dean beside him in the bed, the Dean of suspenders and suits and Brylcreemed hair, the environmentally conscious vegetarian Dean who wouldn’t be caught dead driving a car that got fewer than thirty miles to the gallon. 

And yet, there are tells. Little commonalities, signs that the two of them aren’t as different as they might look. The way their eyes narrow slightly when faced with something they don’t immediately understand. Their absolute disdain for talking about _feelings_ any more than strictly necessary. Their unbridled fierceness when they take on a threat, corporate or noncorporeal.

The way they both love Sam. Fierce. Devoted. Protective to a degree that makes Sam wonder, sometimes. Or would, if he weren’t every bit as smitten.

_It’s disconcerting, seeing Dean in casual clothes. Still natty in a sweater and slacks, but his hair is carefully (and attractively) mussed, his posture a fraction looser. Sam keeps quiet, keeps his face open. Knows, somehow, that this is the best way to keep people talking._

_“You bring out something good in me. If I’m going to keep climbing the corporate ladder, I need someone to help me remember I’m not actually in hell, you know?”_

Sam can’t blame Dean for staying at Sandover, not really. He’s on the fast track, in a position most people their generation would kill for. Especially with the economy the way it is, steady jobs with good salaries and benefits are nothing to sneeze at. Working as an executive is prestigious; it’s not like he was a cubicle jockey, subject to the indignities of unflattering uniforms and unsavory coworkers. Dean is on his way up.

  
Sam, meanwhile, was on his way out.

The week after his slightly dramatic walkout, he’d been making serious plans to go hunting alone. Spent his days poring over newspapers, looking for strange deaths or weird occurrences; imagined sniffing out supernatural threats, saving people. He applied for a loan for a car—found a great deal on a Dodge Charger—dedicated an afternoon to looking up supplies he might need to kit it out properly. It was terrifying and exhilarating—reading, realizing how much might be out there, how many beings he had yet to encounter, how much studying there was to do. What to look for, what to pack, where to even begin.

Perhaps most saliently, his dreams—the strange, inexplicable dreams that had haunted him during his entire three weeks at Sandover, where he and his dream-Dean were partners, where they hunted together—had stopped.

Then Dean Smith had called and asked him for coffee.

_Dean’s eyes meet his again, just briefly, before dropping, a charmingly bashful smile spreading over his face. “Look, I’m not asking you to marry me or anything,” he says, rubbing the side of his neck, looking away. “It’s just, if you wanted...I think we could have a good time together.”_

They do have a good time together—it’s a little surprising, really, the uptight executive and the slacker IT nerd pairing off. They share a love of bad action movies, and a passion for video games; Sam hasn’t had his ass kicked so thoroughly and consistently in _Halo 3_ since college. Even beyond that, it was like their rhythms were already aligned; they fall into cohabiting in Dean’s tiny apartment almost immediately, as if they’re entirely used to living in each others’ pockets. Work during the day. Chores on weekends. And at night—

Well, of course, there’s the chemistry. The sheer blinding-white magnesium-flame _heat_ of the two of them together, as bright-burning as it is undeniable. The way Dean’s eyes, green as his own, darken when Sam stands just a little too close. The pulse-pounding rush of _need_ that hits him when Dean’s mouth curls up at one corner, the way that indicates Sam is about to come harder than he ever has in his life. The soft, broken noises Dean makes, that they both make, when they teeter together on the edge, a bare breath from tipping over, entwined.

_“I know you don’t think this is our life. What we’re meant to be doing.” The words tinge the air with a strange twin taste—resignation, relief. “But Sam—it’s a good life. It’s the life I’ve wanted, the one I never thought I’d be able to have. God knows my dad didn’t think I’d make it. Nobody did. But here I am.” His eyes meet Sam’s again. “Here we are.”_

Those beautiful manicured hands on him feel _right_ in a way Sam’s never experienced before. It’s not even sexual, not entirely—the sensation is there when Dean musses Sam’s hair as much as it is when Sam is shaking apart with Dean knuckle-deep inside him. There’s just something about the two of them together that’s...centering. Liminal. Like they form their own shelter, the eye of the hurricane when the chaos of the world is howling around them.

Sam asked Dean once if he felt the same. Dean had quirked a brow at him, given a little smile—”What, like some kind of past life thing? You going to start telling me we’re soulmates? Whatever you say, Samantha—” and yet there’s something in the way he touches Sam at times. Reverent. Almost disbelieving.

Like Sam, too, is something Dean had never thought he’d be able to have.

_“I’ve got some connections at my old firm. I can make a few calls, get you an interview for a decent job.” He takes a drink of coffee, forcing a pause; shielding himself momentarily from Sam’s reaction. “You could stay. With me.” A glance up, a moment of quiet bravery. "I know it's not your dream. But I'd like you to stay."  
_

And yet, in a way, it is Sam’s dream. Because Sam’s been having dreams again, almost from the day of that fateful coffee date. Dreams where he and Dean do everything together that Sam had imagined, had read about. Where they hunt demons, vampires, demigods—creatures that make Old Man Sandover look like something out of _Beetlejuice_. Where they spend what feels like half their life in the boredom of long drives or library research sessions, punctuated by the heart-pounding adrenaline rush of a hunt, a fight. Where he and Dean save each others’ lives over and over, where they would die for each other, probably will sooner rather than later, but where they’re alive _now,_ where they retreat victorious with whiskey or beer to their shitty motel room—

_Somewhere more private. Lips swollen from kissing. A hand on the side of his face, long fingers threaded in his hair. Green eyes on his once more, open. Wet. Vulnerable._

_“God, Sam, please—stay.”_

—and where they never, ever touch. 

So Sam took the job. Let the loan application lapse, eventually deleted the various websites on ghosts and mythology and monsters from his bookmarks. He spends his days working in IT security, which is at least more interesting than tech support—it turns out he has a knack for breaking into systems, for getting into places he’s not supposed to be, for ferreting out information companies would prefer remain hidden. And his nights—well, if spending his nights in Dean Smith’s bed (and on his couch, and over his desk, and in his office chair, and) is the consolation prize for growing up and letting go of childish dreams, it turns out adult life has its perks as well.

He takes one last look at the scruffed-up Dean—still pretty, Sam thinks, fondly; there’s just no way to make a face like that look common—and lets the dream fade. The vibration of the engine, the hiss of tires on wet asphalt, even the dry-dusty smell of the Impala’s heater all grow distant; Sam stretches, moves just enough to scoop his lover into the crook of his shoulder. Dean nuzzles him, murmurs a few nonsense syllables, and sighs, settling back into sleep.

Sam takes a deep breath through his nose. Hair pomade. Cologne. Sweat. Dean. It makes him happy, in the kind of way that leaves his chest a little tight, that brings tears to the corners of his eyes.

Most people don’t even get one life with Dean. He gets two. Gets to tread the thin line between them, the one where Dean is his perfectly ordinary lover, and the one where he’s—both more, and less.

As dreams go, he’ll take it, and be grateful.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](https://missroserose.tumblr.com/)—come say hello!


End file.
